


Prelude

by KDblack



Series: Don't Go Chasing Rabbits [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Gen, Jeremy Fitzgerald is so very broken, Mike Schmidt has a malfunctioning survival instinct, This is mine, alternate universe - humanoid androids, based on tina-sapphire's AU, every fandom needs at least one serious attempt at writing a ridiculous AU premise, if they keep this up management is going to cry, management has a name, the games happen concurrently, yeah i went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike's first impression of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza is not particularly good. His first impression of his coworkers is even worse. But if the world thinks this is going to make him quit before he's even started the job, it had better think again.</p><p>(Jeremy just wants him to get the hell out before it's too late.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Based (loosely) off of Tina-Sapphire's AU, which you can find on DeviantArt. In short: the animatronics are humanoid androids, the timeline has been thoroughly rewritten, Bonnie can't decide if he wants to dismember Mike or kiss him, and the cupcake is gay for the desk fan. There are a bunch of headcanons that go into justifying this, which I will do my best to share.
> 
> In today's installment, Mike gets a tour, realizes how little he knows about his new job, and meets some new friends(?).

Mike hasn't seen much of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, but he can safely conclude that the place is a wreck. The building's an awful yellow colour, like curdled yogurt, and there's a hole in one of the automatic doors. Above the entrance, Freddy Fazbear himself beams out at the parking lot with a big, stoned smile, framed on either side by flickering neon. The parking lot itself isn't in any better shape; the paint's barely visible, and the tarmac is cracked in a million places by potholes and enterprising sprouts. There's even a little maple tree growing in one of the handicapped parking spaces, green leaves reaching up to Mike's waist. It's surrounded by cigarette butts and squished plastic. 

Every time he takes a step, glass crunches under his feet. The first few times, he winced and made a mental note to step more carefully. Now, he just walks faster. 

A chilly wind that tears straight through his jacket is the cherry on top of this sundae of unpleasantness. Mike's ears are aching from cold by the time he reaches the doors, which take for freaking ever to open. He hurries inside as quickly as he can without pulling the doors apart manually. 

The inside of the building is a lot warmer – and cleaner, thank god – than the outside. There's a funny mixture of smells in the air, and the carpet is an alarming brown colour, but there's no obvious trash on the floor. No one's in the entryway, which is odd, but welcome. Mike removes his hands from his pockets and straightens his coat, trying to discreetly check if he's tracked any stray glass in. 

Nothing shiny on the ground jumps out at him. He's probably good.

Time to find Ms. Sanchez and report in for his first night of work. It was seven pm when he left Aunt Sharon's; it's eight now. That gives him an hour before the restaurant closes. It should be more than enough time to tour the place, learn the job, and get ready for an exciting night of watching life-sized dolls parade around in cute outfits. He should probably have brought a book or something.

No use complaining about it now. Besides, he could be wrong. Maybe night guarding is actually his life's calling, and he'll have the time of his life watching those cameras. Only one way to find out. Humming a happy tune, Mike sets off down the hall. The manager's office can't be that far away.

For once, optimism pays off. The office is one of the first doors he finds, right across from what appears to be some kind of greeting area. This is where the missing employees seem to have gathered. A few wary faces peer out as he passes, note his trajectory, and duck back inside.

Mike rolls his eyes. What a truly admirable work ethic.

The door to the manager's office is made of a shiny, gray metal he doesn't recognize. Some sort of alloy, probably; it's thick and hard and leaves an ache in his knuckles when he knocks. He draws back, hissing softly, and is just about to blow on them when the door opens. Mike has just enough time to shove his hands behind his back and put on a smile before he's face to face with his new boss.

She's a lot smaller than he expected. Mike's no giant himself, but she barely comes up to his chest. With her frizzy, grey-streaked hair and heavily lined face, Ms. Sanchez looks more like someone's grandma than a restaurant manager. The pantsuit does clash with the image a bit, but it's not like Mike has much experience with grandmothers. Maybe this is a common look.

Ms. Sanchez squints up at him, forehead creasing in suspicion. “Mike Schmidt?”

Mike tries to keep the nerves out of his tone. “Yes. I'm here about the job.”

She gives him a piercing look, then stretches out a hand. Mike takes it and tries not to wince. Ms. Sanchez has a grip like a vice.

“I'm Pamela. Thank you so very much for coming in on such short notice.” 

Her eyes are still fixed on his.

Mike forces his smile a bit wider. “It's no problem.”

One more look, considering rather than penetrating. Then a tight smile spreads across her face. It doesn't look happy, per se, but it doesn't look displeased, either. Mike takes that as a good sign and refuses to let his expression waver.

His hand still aches where she squeezed it.

“Well, we'd better get started,” she says, voice ringing with false cheer. “You're a bit early, but that's fine. Please follow me.”

Ms. Sanchez bustles off down the hall in a whirl of frantic energy. Mike stumbles along in her wake, fighting the impression that he's been caught up in a hurricane. In the time it takes for them to reach the office, she manages to pack in a whirlwind tour, a quick history of the establishment, and a brief rundown of the job.

“It's really simple. All you need to do is stay in the office and keep an eye on the mascots.” She gives him a sideways glance.

It takes Mike a second to realize she's waiting for a response. Shit. He didn't actually do a lot of research before coming here – Aunt Sharon monitors internet use pretty severely, and his cell broke a few weeks ago. He hasn't got a replacement yet. He casts his mind about, dredging up any information related to the pizzeria's robot mascots.

Bear. Bunny. Bird – he doesn't remember what kind. Mike vaguely remembers something about a fox from when he was a kid and actually paid attention to commercials for restaurants, but he doesn't think that one's shown up recently. His parents never took him and his sister here. Something about health hazards, and Lissa was allergic to dairy anyways. At the time, Mike didn't care much, but now he's kicking himself for a missed opportunity. What he'd give to have a better reference point than advertisements...

“So, Freddy Fazbear and friends get to walk around at night?”

A brisk nod. “We can't really stop them. It's the night guards' job to make sure they don't leave the building.”

Mike can see why that might be a problem. It can't be easy to get a license to operate life-size robots, and if they get loose? Lawsuits. Lawsuits everywhere.

“Got it. Anything else I should keep in mind?”

She presses her lips together. “A few. Your new coworkers can fill you in on most of them.”

That doesn't sound particularly reassuring. Mike opens his mouth to say something pointless, like 'I see,' but Ms. Sanchez chooses then to stop walking. The security guards' office looms before them, its massive metal doors propped open. Same kind as the ones on Ms. Sanchez's office, which is probably a good sign. The lights are off inside, but Mike can make out a skinny figure slumped over a decaying desk.

One of his new coworkers, presumably.

Ms. Sanchez turns to him, moving so that her back blocks the door. “Mike, this is Jeremy. Jeremy Fitzgerald. He's one of our other night guards, and I'm sure he can answer most of your questions. But before I turn you over to his tender mercies, I need to tell you two things.”

This is beginning to sound downright ominous. 

“I'm listening.”

“First, I know keeping a low profile can be hard, but you must absolutely not draw attention to yourself. Parents might find it a bit reassuring, but the kids don't need reminders of the security presence. Second, don't bother the androids. This applies both on and off the clock.” The smile she gives him this time is crooked. “I'm sure I don't need to give you a list of reasons why.”

“I understand,” Mike says.

“Good.” She steps out of the way and gives the doorframe a quick rap. “Jeremy? Think you've got the energy to answer a few questions?”

For a second, nothing changes, and Mike assumes the answer is 'no.' Then Jeremy stands, hauling himself up in a single fluid motion, and moves toward them.

Mike puts on his best 'eager to learn' smile, the one he learned from seven years of living with Aunt Sharon. Jeremy doesn't follow suit. In fact, as he steps into the lighted hallway, Jeremy isn't wearing any expression at all.

He's a good-looking man, Mike thinks; not movie-star handsome, but definitely attractive. Young. Fluffy blond hair. Nice cheekbones. Tall, too, which means that Mike has to tilt his head back to make eye contact. Mike does so, because gawking at Jeremy's green plaid jacket and wondering who would ruin such nice fabric with that color combination seems like it might not be the best first impression. Not that it matters, because Jeremy is glaring down at him, lovely face closed off. 

“Make Scott do it.”

Jeremy's voice is flat, mechanical. It doesn't sound like a living thing.

Ms. Sanchez gives him another of her too-bright smiles. “Jeremy, please. Scott and Fritz are in the dining hall already. 

He stares back at her with eyes green as glass and just as cold.

“My shift is over.”

Those four words seem to spell the end of it. Ms. Sanchez deflates, sagging until she reminds Mike of an empty balloon. Jeremy brushes past her, pausing only briefly as he reaches Mike.

“You should leave now,” he says in that dull, lifeless voice. “We don't need another night guard.”

Mike sinks his teeth into his lip. He stays perfectly still until Jeremy's footsteps have faded away. Only then does he unclench his fists and wipe his expression clean.

Ms. Sanchez is watching Jeremy leave, something like grief in her tired brown eyes. Mike coughs to get her attention. She nearly jumps out of her skin.

“I'm so sorry, Mike,” she babbles, herding him away from the office. “Jeremy's not usually so unpersonable. He's actually one of our friendliest employees, I promise, he just needs some time to get used to you.”

Mike nods and makes agreeable noises as they walk back down the hall, hiding his anger beneath a smile that feels just as bright and fake as hers. So his first coworker is an asshole who wants nothing to do with him. Good to know. At least he doesn't have to keep waiting for the other boot to drop anymore.

And if this is the worst that Freddy's has to offer, he's not terribly impressed.


End file.
